


1601

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Year Slow Burn, Aziraphale is a pine tree, M/M, Non Explicit, Pining, Romantic And Sexual Fantasies, lots of pining, romantic longing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29140380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Must not think about the demon. Must not think about the demon. Must not think about the demon…this mantra echoes repeatedly in Aziraphale’s head as he lifts his mug of ale to his lips and takes a small gulp. The sweet, miracle-enhanced brew spills across his tongue and down his throat, leaving behind it a warmth that pairs well with the warmth already pooling inside his chest.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	1601

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little one shot about Azirpahale, pining for Crowley....

_Must not think about the demon. Must not think about the demon. Must not think about the demon…_ this mantra echoes repeatedly in Aziraphale’s head as he lifts his mug of ale to his lips and takes a small gulp. The sweet, miracle-enhanced brew spills across his tongue and down his throat, leaving behind it a warmth that pairs well with the warmth already pooling inside his chest. 

_Must not think about the demon_. Yes, Aziraphale knows that repeating Crowley’s title over and over in his mind is far from the best way to avoid thinking of him. But he’s unsure how else to remind himself to stop the behavior. As an angel, a principality of Heaven, it’s not proper for him to spend so much time ruminating on a pair of vibrant yellow eyes like he does. 

If only Crowley weren’t such an _interesting character_. If only he were dull. Or, even better, if he were well and truly _evil_ enough to repulse Aziraphale. Perhaps if Crowley were simply more of a _demonic_ demon. If he harmed people, or performed a possession or two. Even deflowering a few local virgins would go a long way toward helping Aziraphale keep his mind off of his adversary.

But no. Crowley keeps his demonic acts to simple mischief. The sort not much more dastardly than what is accomplished on a daily basis by any village boy who gets up to no good. Stealing pies off window sills and blaming the neighbor. Enticing people to gamble away a bit too much of their money. Letting chickens out of their coops so that they wander about in the woods and force their owners to run after them, bent and reaching and cursing with the inconvenience of it. 

Small crimes. Petty thefts. Nothing that Aziraphale could latch onto as a reason to stop spending time with the demon. Only to keep an eye on him of course. To make sure he wasn’t tipping over into any _real_ demonic trouble making. 

They’d just met at the Globe, a few weeks ago, and Crowley had asked, in that soft, velvet-on-gravel voice of his, if Aziraphale would agree to a coin toss to see who would go to Edinburgh.

Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t have agreed to the Arrangement. He should have held firm to his principals. Only it _was_ quite seductive, this way of growing accustomed to the demon’s company. Getting used to sharing meals and drinks. To sharing stories about the humans. Why not take it a little bit farther? Surely there’s no harm in it. If Crowley is ordered to accomplish the same number of temptations as Aziraphale is ordered to mete out blessings, then really, their jobs did cancel one another out. How degrading and disheartening it feels! To spend so much time, crafting miracles, helping people, bestowing God’s mercy here and there, all while the demon is doing the exact opposite, three counties over? 

And so when Crowley suggests the Arrangement for probably the third time, just as Aziraphale is about to embark on a dreadfully long trip to Madrid to bless a Spanish Lord, he can’t help but agree. Crowley is headed to Spain already, he says. He has to tempt a nun in Barajas to run away with a priest. It’s just a hop, skip and a jump from Barajas to Madrid. He says he can handle both. Aziraphale bites his lip and wrings his hands, but oh how an evening spent reading and sipping at some mulled wine sounds highly preferable to lugging his way over to Spain. He agrees grudgingly and tries to ignore the spark of triumph in Crowley’s marigold eyes over the rim of his tinted shades. 

And now, centuries later, they’ve done it, the Arrangement, over and over again. Aziraphale, striving to stay true to his angel nature, does put up a little bit of a fight each time. He has to. For his own sense of self respect. But his protestations are growing less and less vehement. Crowley’s soft persuasions are growing more cleverly honed. He knows all of the angel’s weak spots by now. His love of sweets. His slothfulness and his book-worship. 

And Aziraphale can always pacify his discomfort over their little Arrangement by telling himself that Crowley is actually accomplishing blessings. He’s getting a taste of divine goodness along with the sin. He must be improving the state of his soul mustn’t he? Was that even possible, Aziraphale wonders? Was Crowley’s soul improvable? Could the soft, white linen cloth of angelic acts polish away some of the patina of black that taints Crowley’s heart? He’s uncertain. But, the demon never seems to complain too harshly when asked to execute miracles. And he does it too! Azirpahale’s no fool. He checks up afterwards to make sure that the orphans are indeed adopted by loving families. That the lost dog is returned to the warmth of his owner’s hearth. He checks for a few decades, until he can trust that Crowley will actually execute blessings he’s been tasked with, and then, satisfied with the demon’s honestly, he stops checking. 

He has no idea if Crowley has followed up on any of Aziraphale’s temptations. He doubts it. It doesn’t seem like something the demon would do. It is extra work after all, and if he knows anything about Crowley, it’s that the demon likes to cut corners. But if he _had_ , checked that is, he’d have found that Aziraphale had enacted the temptations to the letter. He’s no slouch. Once he has a task before him, he accomplishes it with thoroughness and skill. 

He’s never agreed to do anything particularly sinful. He won’t tempt humans to acts of adultery or violence. But he _will_ tempt them to eat a bit extra cake, to put a few too many coins down on the card table. He won’t assign temptations to Crowley that would make him uncomfortable either. It’s part of their Arrangement. Just the barest minimum amount of effort. Not enough to truly compromise their own conflicting sets of morals. 

But now, after so much shared time and shared work, Aziraphale finds himself thinking of Crowley a bit too often. And the thoughts are definitely leaning toward a sort of affection, a fondness that he knows is not part of the deal. He was ordered to spy on Crowley, not to think idly of his copper hair, and how it gleams so brightly in the gold-pink glow of the setting sun. He’s supposed to keep an eye on the demon, yes. But that eye should really not be roaming over the demon’s long limbs, cataloging the shape of the demon’s lips as he speaks. That eye should not busy itself too much with the white gleam of Crowley’s wicked smile. 

He fights daily to push these sorts of thoughts away and down, scolding himself quite soundly for them whenever they creep in, unnoticed.. He’s an _angel_. He’s not supposed to feel this way about _anyone_ , let alone his adversary. Let alone _one of the fallen_. 

Oh but Crowley is not your average demon. He’s not covered with scales (when in his human form anyway). His skin is neither clammy, nor is it slimy. His hair isn’t matted with filth. His eyes are startling, yes, but they’re also, after repeated viewings, quite beautiful. A thrilling flash of yellow, cut through with black slits, that make Aziraphale’s heart beat faster when they flick in his direction. As if Aziraphale is a small, soft rodent who hides in the underbrush, and Crowley a predator who’s just spotted him. Crowley’s skin looks smooth and clean and pale, and he smells nice, like amber musk and forest pine. His hair is like spun copper and flame. His clothes are always neat and well ordered and at the height of local fashion. All in all, he’s quite pleasing to look at. And so Aziraphale should not be surprised that his eyes are drawn, again and again, to this fetching creature. 

It’s simply his enjoyment of aesthetic beauty that’s to blame for these feelings he has. He feels the same way about works by Bruegel and Tintoretto. He feels the same when looking at the vast, glowing bloom of the rose window at Notre Dame. He loves beauty, is moved by it. He’s an angel after all. And it’s not his fault that Crowley is a thing of beauty, and that he notices that beauty. That it makes his heart swell with affection. Why, he feels the same way about the pink, plump cheek of a newborn babe, or the lovely flowing locks of a beautiful woman. He feels that way when he looks at the stunning spread of a sunset over the Thames. This is no different. Crowley’s long nose and full lower lip, his hair, like a river of fire as it falls about his narrow shoulders… all of that loveliness is a natural thing for an angel to notice. 

He reassures himself of this many times over the centuries. It’s a well worn excuse. And it has the benefit of being (at least partly) true. Of course Aziraphale admires beauty. And this is yes, one of the reasons he admires Crowley. And he can cling to that excuse for dear life, he can dig his fingernails in and hang onto that excuse with all his might, if he has to.

What he’s far less comfortable with, is what lies underneath the admiration of Crowley’s looks. For while a rose window is breathtaking in its color and shape and in its construction, and the fine shadowing and sumptuously rendered paintings of Tintoretto inspire admiration, this isn’t at all what he feels when he looks at the demon. 

What he feels is base and filthy. What he feels is hot and messy, dark and sinful. He feels a sort of low, pulsing heat that tugs at his insides. He’s dreadfully ashamed of these feelings. For they’re not at all appropriate to his job title. And if Crowley knew… if he could see the thoughts that paraded themselves through Aziraphale’s mind, he’d surely die laughing. He’d mock Aziraphale for his unangelic longings, call him weak and perverted and chuckle all the way back down to Hell. Either that or he’d look at Aziraphale with pity. Or maybe neither. Perhaps he’d be repulsed? Who knows what sorts of things Crowley finds flattering, finds desirable. Perhaps he feels no desire at all? Maybe Aziraphale is the only one out of the two of them who is broken… 

And even deeper, beneath the lust, below those sparking, pulsing urges that make him feel so ashamed, there’s something even more shameful. Worse than lust. Worse than sins of the flesh. Desire for sexual congress is a thing Crowley was built to inspire. He must’ve been. The other demons Aziraphale has had the poor fortune to meet, could never inspire lust. They, with their repulsive scabs and their stink of sulfur and swamp rot. Crowley must be able to insight lust if he’s to do his job properly. And Aziraphale lusting after him is an understandable side effect of a long association. He’d have to be blind not to wish to kiss those lips or slip his hands under those dark robes. 

But beneath the desire he feels, lies something far more damning than idle fantasies of their skin pressed together, their mouths opening to each other. And it’s not even a thing the demon is trying to tempt Aziraphale with. And so Aziraphale is faced with the shameful truth, that these feelings, swelling warmly inside his heart, are of _his own doing_. They are a product of his own weak, corrupted heart. He can’t blame Crowley for the thoughts of softly running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. He can’t blame the demon for how just the sight of him makes Aziraphale’s arms ache with the urge to embrace Crowley and tell him all the secret yearnings of his poor angel heart. 

Yes, he thinks far too much on what it would be like to share pleasures of the flesh with Crowley, but he’s fairly certain that placing gentle kisses to the demon’s cheeks and brow, that carefully tucking a strand of flame coloured hair behind the perfect shell of his ear are not in line with simple lust. 

He dares not give these feelings a name. Pushes them away from his mind and scrubs them from his heart with even more force than the lustful ones (though it does little good). It’s these soft, weak, delicate feelings that are sure to get him in serious trouble with Upstairs. He’s fairly certain he can talk himself out of a sexual dalliance (not that he’d ever _do_ such a thing!). It would be tricky, but there’s well worn excuses his bosses virtually _have_ to accept, based solely on the fact that they warned him of such a possibility, relentlessly and for decades before he was sent to the Garden.

_I was only curious. Like you said, remember? He’s a demon, and I, an angel, so pure and inexperienced… well, he simply tempted me into it. Please allow me to repent for my sins and regain your respect. It shan't happen a second time!_

But how do you excuse a deeper sort of regard? It’s bad enough that they consider each other _friends_. Not out loud mind you. Neither of them have said it. But what exactly do you call a person you’ve shared thousands of meals with? A person with whom you’ve drunk countless bottles of wine? How many evenings of pleasant chats can one truly get away with without admitting that one has made a new… acquaintance? 

Aziraphale takes another sip of his ale, a rather large sip, and looks for perhaps the tenth time at the door of the tavern. He’s just come back from Scotland, had been road weary and saddle sore from over two weeks on horseback. He’d miracled the aches and pains away of course, but he couldn’t do that every ten minutes. That would have garnered too much attention from Upstairs, as would miracling himself that far a distance. He’s supposed to practice humility while he’s down here. Set a good example. And so he’d had to wait until the end of the trip, climbing into a large wooden tub of hot water (baths haven’t strictly made their way to London yet, but Aziraphale isn’t about to let that stop him), and groaning in pleasure as the heat and a flurry of minor miracles erase the pain and exhaustion of the trip. 

He's meeting Crowley here, at a tavern near the Globe theater, to catch him up on how it went, and of course, to share a few pints of ale and some companionship. Every time the door swings open to admit a new patron, Aziraphale’s eyes flick over to check if it’s Crowley, and every time it isn’t, he feels a small stab of disappointment. 

Of course this means that Crowley sneaks in somehow without him realizing it, and slides into a chair opposite Aziraphale, as silently as snow fall. Aziraphale gasps and clutches at his heart when he looks up to see the demon sitting across from him, smiling below his ever present tinted spectacles. 

“Hello angel,” Crowley drawls through a smirk, removing his shades. Their table is in a dark corner, and no one will notice. “How was Scotland?”

“Bloody awful, and don’t sneak up on me like that!” Aziraphale scolds with no real heat, consciously slowing his heart from a swift pitter patter to a more stately pace. “You were right my dear. Horses are a horrible way to travel. I haven’t spent that much time on a horse since 1375.”

“Well, you have my gratitude for what it’s worth. And while we’re speaking of the _Arrangement_ ,” (he drops his voice to a murmur for that one word, mindful of Aziraphale’s paranoia) “I have a feeling you’ll be surprised by attendance for Hamlet’s next performance.” He winks, and Aziraphale swallows thickly. 

“Oh… oh yes. I’d quite forgotten about that. So… you were... successful?” He doesn’t want to ask details. Wants to maintain at least some semblance of plausible deniability. 

“Let’s just say, I think you’ll be pleased,” Crowley’s smile deepens and Aziraphale has to look down into his cup, away from the dangerous gleam of the demon’s white, gently pointed incisors and soft mouth stretched in a friendly grin. 

“Well, I’m very grateful for your assistance,” he says, into his mug, his voice trembling just a little bit. “It’s such a wonderful play, and master Shakespeare has worked so hard. I truly believe he deserves more than just a smattering of audience members per performance. And poor Burgage-”

“Burbage huh?” The demon’s voice has gone a little sharp around the edges. “What’ve you got angel, a crush?”

“Mm?” Aziraphale looks up in surprise at the abrupt change in topic and tone. “A crush?” 

“On that fellow Burbage. You certainly seem to bring him up quite often,” Crowley’s smile has gone stiff. 

“A _crush_? On _young master Burbage_? Why would you think such a ridiculous thing!” Aziraphale is both surprised and insulted. Burbage is barely past his twenties. A mere babe in swaddling clothes. And human to boot!

“Come now, when I saw you in the Globe last month, I could tell you fancied him. Your face went all glowy like it gets when you like things. Don’t try to deny it, angel. You’re an open book."

“An...an open book?” Aziraphale asks faintly. He thinks back to that afternoon, to the happiness he felt at watching Hamlet on stage. Yes, he’d thrilled to the poetry of the words being spoken. Yes, the plot had him tightly in its clutches, full of murder and tragedy and intrigue. But he feels no romantic attraction for Burbage. He only ever feels soft, warm, glowing feelings for… for… 

“Well,” he says with a huff, squaring his shoulders and setting his face into as much of an expression of disapproval as he’s able. “You’ve simply got the wrong idea Crowley. I have no interest in humans.”

“Then why did you spend the whole conversation with that massive smile on your face?” Crowley counters, yellow eyes narrowing. 

Aziraphale flinches before he can stop himself. He’d been smiling because Crowley had walked up. He’d been smiling because Crowley, in his black hose and doublet, his long hair, spilling down across his back and shoulders, had made Aziraphale smile. Crowley, being slinky and solicitous and charming had made Aziraphale beam like a midday sun. Only he can’t dare admit it. “I simply love the theater,” he says, mumbles it into his cup as he takes a sip. “That’s all.” 

“If you say so, angel.” Crowley relents, stops pinning Aziraphale with his sharp yellow eyes, and relaxes back into his chair, into a gangly splay of long limbs. His face melts from suspicion to his usual cavalier look.

Aziraphale isn’t sure what to say next. He sits in silence and nurses his drink, tries not to look directly at Crowley. It’s difficult. Like not looking at the only candle in a dark room. Like averting one’s gaze from a full moon on a cloudless night. “Where… where are you headed next?” he asks, putting his cup down and spinning it slowly in his hands. 

“Not sure,” Crowley replies. “There’s work for me in Rome, but then again, there’s also some very dastardly deeds to get accomplished right here in London. Why do you ask?” He leans forward in his chair, puts his elbows on the table and fixes Aziraphale with a piercing look. 

“Oh, no reason. Just curiosity I suppose. I mean… I thought that if we were both headed in the same general direction, you might… like to go for dinner?” It’s bold of him to ask. Crowley just drops in when he feels like it, or when he’s in the neighborhood. It’s never Aziraphale who does the inviting. He can sense the surprise coming off Crowley in waves, in the stiffness of his shoulders, the intent expression on his face, and immediately regrets bringing it up. It’s not proper angelic behavior after all, to invite a demon to dinner. He should never have-

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley says. His voice is very carefully casual, betraying the tense mood of a moment ago with a lazy sort of drawl. “I could do with a bite to eat. Where’d you have in mind?”

Aziraphale can’t help the smile that blooms to life in response. “Well, there’s this lovely little place on the outskirts of town that does a delightful roast lamb. And they have quite a fine selection of imported wines. I thought we could give that one a try.” He finally looks directly at Crowley to gauge his reaction and sees the demon’s mouth curl up on the side with a wicked little grin.

“That sounds perfectly acceptable,” he replies, one copper eyebrow rising in an arch. 

Aziraphale covers his own widening smile and hot cheeks with the rim of his mug as he takes a last sip of ale. “Good,” he replies. “It’ll be my treat. Because you said you’d help out with Hamlet.”

“I did more than _say_ I’d help out angel, just you wait and see..”

“Now Crowley! You know I can’t hear about the details. I have to be able to tell my side that I have no clue why the play became more popular…well… if they ever come asking that is.” 

“You know they won’t angel, but fine. I’ll keep my secrets to myself.” 

A few moments later, they get up and make their way out onto the street. It’s a nice fall evening. A breeze, mercifully free of the smell of animal dung or human refuse, gusts past them, bearing with it the crisp scent of fallen leaves and the heavenly aroma of fresh baked bread. Aziraphale sighs happily as the brisk little gust of air flits through his curls and plays about gently with Crowley’s long locks. “I can take us there instantly, if you’d rather not walk,” he offers, and after a heartbeat of a pause, Crowley nods. 

“It erm… it works better if you take my hand,” Aziraphale said, for this was indeed true. Instant teleportation via angelic miracle works best when you are in contact with the person you want to bring with you. Otherwise there’s a chance Crowley will end up several streets over… or in another country entirely. Aziraphale holds out his hand, swallowing down the nervous lump in his throat, and tells himself that he hasn’t suggested teleportation just for this reason. For an excuse to touch Crowley. 

Crowley looks at the proffered hand for a moment, and Aziraphale’s human heart stops beating. He hopes he hasn’t gone too far. Hasn’t breached an unspoken boundary that’s been in place and unbroken for millennia. But Crowley only flashes him an unreadable look, from eyes still unshrouded, eyes that shine like burnished gold in the late afternoon sun. The demon’s fingers are soft and cool to the touch. They curl around the back of Aziraphale’s hand, and Crowley’s palm presses against Aziraphale’s palm. It is a very intimate thing. Hand holding. The humans do it to show affection. Aziraphale quickly pulls his gaze away from where he’s staring down at their clasped hands, and briefly up into Crowley’s smiling face before he snaps his fingers. 

Anyone passing by would have been quite surprised to see two, very unusual looking gentlemen, one in black, the other in pale blue and silver, one with red hair, long and waving, the other with wild flaxen locks, the color of yellow sunshine on snow, disappear from sight. No one does see them though. But if they had, they would have surely noticed that the gentleman in black was looking at his companion with a soft, longing expression upon his face.


End file.
